The Man at the End of This Story
by The Poison Ivy League
Summary: A man seeking purpose, and generally failing...
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This universe is an amalgamation canon from Marvel 616, Ultimateverse, Movieverse and some original musings, just to waste sometime really. Hope it's mildly entertaining._

Clinton Francis Barton is born to a ghost of a woman, a woman who seemed to recede from the world as soon as she gave birth to her second son. Clinton Francis Barton is fathered by a man who never returned from 'Nam in any way that really mattered, seemingly more likely to be found in the pages of a Tim O'Brien book than a small liberal-arts college town in the Corn Belt.

Clinton Francis Barton is the younger brother to a smart, impatient and self-confident boy named Charles Bernard "Barney" Barton. Barney is all Clint has left when Harold and Edith die, die in a whiskey soaked, twisted metal ball of wreckage on the road home late one night. They should have been enough for each other, but they aren't, but that comes later.

Clint Barton is an orphan, and learns too young to grow up. Foster care teaches Clint that even nice people can't be trusted, and even in your own bed, you aren't safe. The less said about this time, the better, as far as Clint is concerned. Clint and Barney do what all kids dream of doing, run away and join the circus.

Clint Barton learns dreams are for children, and the circus is just as lonely and dangerous as anywhere else. Clint and Barney become roustabouts, because at this point there is nowhere else to run to. Carson's Circus is a den of the fringes of society. Clint learns sleight of hand from thieves, showmanship from liars, acrobatics from fugitives and runaways, fire breathing from cold men. Clint learns his trademark skills from killers, juggling and tossing blades of all manners; nocking, drawing and releasing on a target with speed and accuracy. Jacques and Buck craft a showman, a weapon. Clint Barton's curse is he never misses, it is not a gift. If Barney were alive, he could tell you that.

Clint Barton runs away from the circus, because he is a liar, a thief and a killer; and children shouldn't cheer for him. Clint Barton doesn't have anywhere to run to, so he just keeps running, until iron bars block his way. The judge gives him a choice, Clint Barton's other curse is he is always seeking adventure, he dreams of something better.

PFC Clinton Barton, U.S. Army is a physical prodigy, with a long familiarity with pain and privation, calmness unmatched by boys of his age. As other falls around him, broken and bleeding, PFC Barton emerges from Fort Benning wearing a black beret and a holding to a Creed that will carry through Panama, Iraq and Somali.

Special Forces Weapons Sergeant Clinton Barton, U.S. Army spends the morning of his wedding fastidiously organizing the many tabs, badges, insignia, medals, ribbons, patches, flashes, tags, bars and stripes on his green Class A's. It is the only suit he owns, Barbara will change that. Barbara Morse PhD is change for Sgt. Barton, someone to come home to after deployments and training rotations; something to come home to, something to call home. Barbara is quiet afternoons with a book or movie. Someone to teach him to be live in the world, because she breezes so easily from national security briefings and covert operations to Sunday dinners and picking out furniture; she doesn't dream of blood and fire. Barbara will be good for him.

Staff Sergeant Clinton Barton, 1st S-SFOD, U.S. Army watches the Towers fall a year after his divorce. The ensuing years are deployments where the days are too hot and the nights too cold, sleep comes by way of Ambien and the most intimate contact he has with anybody outside the military is the targets in his scope that disappear in a pink mist. Life became rotating from creeping through the Afghan mountains lit by NVGs or kicking in doors and clearing rooms in Iraq, ensuring the gear of the pack list is tight, jumping out of C-17s into the East African sun or fast roping from Black Hawks in the Pakistan border region. When not deployed or on a training rotation, SSG Barton went to gun shows, surfed the web for new gear or porn, drank and when granted enough time, hunted. SSG Barton picks up a bow for the first time in years, its different now; there are no lights or crowds. There is only the forest. Clinton Francis Barton cries silent tears while he skins and bleeds the deer, and he is not sure why. It is not long before the tears burn up in a blast in a barren wasteland.

Sergeant First Class Clinton F. Barton, U.S. Army (retired) lives in virtual silence, the world outside his bottle is a dull murmur. The television is merely source of light and color, the sound of the clip sliding into the gun doesn't register clearly, only the bite of metal in his mouth registers. For all his medals and service, Clinton Francis Barton is a coward, he's not sure if it's for putting the gun in his mouth or for not pulling the trigger.

Agent Phil "Cheese' Coulson, S.H.I.E.L.D, is one of the few people on the planet to still remember Clinton Francis Barton still exists. He remembers Barton's relentlessness in CQB, his precision in the kill house, his patience as a sniper. Barton is a legend. The Clint Barton that emerges from the wilderness dragging a deer carcass and a compound bow looks erratic and unhinged, miles away from the precision instrument the government invested so much in, that men entrusted their lives to. The Barton of old is a myth. Communicating is hard, in more ways than one, not just that Barton has neglected to learn ASL. This man believes in so little, has sacrificed so much, and has been broken so badly. Agent Coulson can offer the sound of the wind in the trees, the crack of a rifle, the twang of a bow. That is more precious than gold.

Agent Clint Barton, S.H.I.E.L.D emerges from The Program brand shiny new. His senses have never been sharper; he experiences the world with a whole new clarity.

General Nicholas Joseph Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D appreciates a man with clarity of sight, of being. This is why he places a folder in front of Clint Barton, a file few have ever seen. Barton studies it with the single-mindedness of a man with an eye for details; Fury merely need point his new weapon in the right direction. Be it with a bullet or an arrow, knife or by bare hands the targets fall like dominos.

The Hawk appreciates quality tradecraft, she is a prodigy. A remnant of a war long over, a product of chaotic country, a creature of power structures long crumbled; but beautiful in her own way. She is also a child, and The Hawk has been putting men in the ground before she was born. She moves like lightning, but the battleground is against her. The Hawk is larger, more powerful and she has no room to maneuver in the cramped allies of Tehran. It is when she is bloodied and broken before him, that Clinton Francis Barton learns the quality of mercy for the first time. He cradles her like the child she is, swears she has nothing to fear. She doesn't believe it now, but one day she will; one day she will barter with a god to have him back at her side.

The Black Widow is an artist; she is a spy like no other. Fury can appreciate a valued asset, he is no fool. That does not mean The Widow's transition to the West is not seamless, her methods are questioned, her every move scrutinized, but on balance she considers her current position an improvement. The Hawk's gaze is constantly on her, its weight an increasingly familiar presence. He is the first man to best her, to resist her, he is intriguing. His presence in the early days is near constant, a predator lurking in the shadows. She endeavors to draw him to her, to conquer him, he resists. It is a most entertaining sport, something to fill the moments between.

Clint Barton hasn't felt hopeful about anything since Barbara, he hasn't dreamt of anything but horror in years. Natalia "Natasha" Alianovna Romanova fills him with hope, that maybe he can have something to be proud of when his days come to an end. For all her bluster, feigned indifference and damage she has surfaced, she seeks to be better, do better. Barton doesn't seek much these days, at least not for himself. He is a killer hundreds of times over, and a part of him enjoys, it has to, to do what he does. Natasha has time, a life ahead of her that could be so much better. He balances the gravitational pull she has, with the resistance he knows he must maintain on a knife edge. Barton is an old soldier, not good for the more delicate things in life, and she needs something good and pure to balance the horror she has been through. He wants to believe this, wants it to be true so badly. Natasha seems to have other plans; she would have him kneel before her, own him, a monster on a leash. He pretends this is not what he wants, that belonging to something, someone, believing in them is something that hasn't been something he has sought for years.

Budapest, Sao Paulo, London, Beijing, Johannesburg, Dubai, Peshawar, Taipei. These are building blocks, for what he doesn't know. She tears him down; he seeks to build her up. Clint begins to get comfortable. He lets her know him, and seeks to know her.

New Mexico is an operation like any other. S.H.I.E.L.D is not like other organizations, their focus differs, and it has always been very big picture issues. Director Fury's phone call about an alien crash is interesting, but not surprising. Monitoring scientific advancement and experimentation, controlling dangerous technology and confronting the unknown and unfathomable is pretty much par for the course. Its part of the reason Clint signed on, S.H.I.E.L.D is far more than about dictators, terrorists and criminals, there is enough of the alphabet soup dedicated to that.

Loki Laufeyson brings clarity and a sense of being and purpose, like Clinton Francis Barton has never known. The beauty of knowing, of seeing the way forward with such certainty is awe inspiring. He feels connected to a higher purpose, it is beautiful.

Clint Barton does not know how to handle it once it is gone, and the world is frightening and chaotic again. Natasha Romanoff has saved him, she has damned him. He is proud of her, loves her. He fears her, hates her. He cannot speak of Coulson and the others who fell under his time with Loki, because while horrified by it, a part of him felt/feels he was truly righteous in those moments. The Psych department does not need to hear that.

Hawkeye knows how small and insignificant he is now with terrifying surety, how broken and damaged. He is a mere human, a trained killer, and an aging one at that. The Avengers Initiative is his present deployment; it will be his final assignment. Hawkeye can only hope he can find some meaning moving forward, before a death catches him. He will kneel for Natasha, salute for Fury, follow Rogers, and hope that it can fill him with something...


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: This is an extension of unique little canon I created originally, wasn't going to write it, but here it is._

The file folder is thinner than Barton is used to, especially since he screened positive for SHIELD field operations. Between the technology, manpower and reach, intelligence is usually quite abundant. It makes things simplistic once the details were known, just "shoot, move, communicate, kill."

Maria Hill is an oppressive presence as he processes the information, very little of the file will leave this room. Everything not essential to field operations will be then shredded and burned.

Operation Lady Midday was simple, one prime target. Female Russian operative, a product of a KGB/FSB freakshow operation, the type that went completely unchecked after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Normally, the presence of one more killer in the world, no matter how young or impressive is of little concern to the power brokers behind Fury. She acts as the emissary for retired Russian general turned oligarch looking to move loose nuclear material to Iran.

This puts her on the radar, youth shall not breed clemency. Barton can understand why this file sits open before him, a man who doesn't exist anymore. The assassination of an underage Russian national in connection with loose nukes behind enemy lines in a politically volatile region, it is a total Charlie Foxtrot. Barton is as they say, totally shit hot, he gets the fun jobs.

Aerial insertion by night into the Alborz Mountains, trek under the idiotic amount of weight the ton of gear the good idea fairies down in logistics had deemed necessary for this mission to a rendezvous with undercover asset to be smuggled into Tehran, kill people and make for the Caspian Sea without leaving a trace. Simple.

Except for the complete lack of visual on the target, analysts are positive she is a red haired, caucasian of maybe not even eighteen years, speaks with a Muscovite accent and is all accounts, very attractive. Although as a thirty plus divorced soldier who has seen the world, Barton has no interest in little girls, though someone should rescreen the analysts. There is ample enough intelligence on locations and the entourage around her, as well as her Iranian counterparts. Barton gets to shoot something, better yet someone; that is all that really matters to him. Shame the arrows cannot come along, Barton is not sure if it is about discretion or they just really want her splattered all over the street that the mission mandates a bullet in the head.

Hill tries to hold his gaze once he finally finishes, she finds something dark and lifeless there, like the creepy dolls her mother used to give her. His smile is not very human, too wide; it makes her suppress a shiver. He slides the file back across to her and she tells herself that principles just will not do here, creatures like Barton are necessary no matter how distasteful. He is a least better than outsourcing this to someone on Fury's shortlist like Wilson, Masters, Creed or Howlett. The girl may very well be damaged goods and a threat to global security, but she does not deserve to die like that, Barton will be quick.

Barton gets a print out of the packing list the next day at O Dark Thirty, four single spaced pages, most of it bullshit. He spends the day between the cage, supply and the armory, methodically organizing load-outs; he does not speak to anyone beyond the absolute necessary. Jump gear obsessively checked, altimeters and AADs, parachutes and oxygen. The armory strips down standard issue setups and rebuilds to chamber Russian military rounds, with custom grips, triggers and scopes. Knives sharpened, batteries checked, explosives stowed, packs filled. It is like eating an elephant, one bite at a time is the only way, and the tension hums under Barton's skin.

It is only stepping out into a supernova of blinding light on the airfield at night that Barton can breathe. When the ramp of the C-17 cracks open 35,000 plus feet up and Barton freefalls through the inky blackness, it feels like being born.

The punishing terrain and cold keep him sharp until he reaches the outskirts of a ski resort north of Tehran. A bearded man in winter gear and a large pack jumping into a truck is hopefully inconspicuous enough for the area, it is not ideal, but he has to emerge from the wilderness to make cont rocks act with the British born Iranian who will take him into Tehran. Once well clear, Barton ensures his sidearm is accessible, and reviews the reference cards by flashlight to kill time. Each one disappears in flame and ash out the window once memorized, and he disappears into a hidden compartment that feels like a coffin as they approach Tehran.

Barton has a full twelve hours to observe to location of the meet, a military storage point amongst the hills on the eastern outskirts of the city. There are several large Soviet era buildings closely packed together, creating a network of cramped alleyways that spill out onto a large tarmac. The open ground is suicide to cross in the bright winter sunlight, so Barton holds his position amongst the rocky hills. As the sun begins to set, and snow comes with the temperature fall, the tension and discomfort across his back and shoulders lifts, as word comes that a convoy approaches from the west and Barton can push forward into the safety of the dark alleys.

His NVGs flare from the headlights, but he stares through the washout to watch several military age males emerge from the nearest building to greet the convoy. Barton gives a whisper quiet "hooah" as he spots a slender figure wearing a hijab directing traffic, and another as an older man emerges from an SUV to settle next to her. The boss is here, he does not have explicitly authorized kill order for him, but Barton has lived under big boy rules long enough to know this is a scalp no one will argue about taking.

He radios it in, and priority shifts, the nukes are here, live and in color. He has limited time to kill what he can and blow the trucks. He has a round racked up before the condition one order is given; IR beam on the Cold War relic, finger squeezing the trigger before the cleared hot order ever comes. As the old man's grape bursts all over the girl's face, the scene becomes chaos.

The Russians open fire on the Iranians, who return the favor. Barton switches off his goggles and launches enough Willie Pete into their midst the light up the night, turning the scene into an inferno. He pushes forward, dropping targets with controlled bursts, timing his progress across the tarmac in bullets, bodies and speed reloads. He slams his body against the truck containing the nukes, finding cover. Smoke and heat shield him while he plants explosives on the crates in the back of the main truck.

Checking his weapon in the back of the truck, he recounts how many targets are left, realizes the girl has been separated from the firefight. In fact he is staring right at her, something about the fire has paralyzed her, easy target. The fire illuminates her face; the blood painting her skin appears almost black in the light, snow clings to her before melting in the heat. Trapped, curled in a ball and staring wide-eyed into the flames, shaking in the mouth of the dead-end alleyway and inching her way back. It is sad. It is beautiful.

Barton whirls to pump off a few rounds at targets trying to flank him, he pushes forward towards the girl. Shouldering his rifle, its out of ammo, but he feels no fear; she has backed herself against the end of the alley. She looks wild and desperate and has he closes distance she strikes like a rattlesnake. The ceramic plates in his vest take the blow of her blade and he blocks a second strike, before stunning her with an elbow. Barton uses the cramped quarters to close distance quickly, overwhelms her with superior size and strength. She is brutally fast, but sloppy with rage.

He grapples with her, crushing her to him, binding her arms and lifting her feet off the ground. She weights nothing; he sweats more from the heat of the fire than the battle. At first, he thinks she is still struggling, but realizes great heaving sobs wrack her body. Her face is a mess, tear tracks and blood, ash and melted snow. It is one of the most stunning sights he has ever seen; it stuns him into paralysis for a moment.

Clint Barton does not have moments, the heat of the fire and the realization of time ticking away spur him into action. Later he tell Fury it was a calculated decision, she could provide important intelligence, be an asset. In the moment, it is because at this range, it will have to be with a knife or his hands. Apparently, Barton is not enough of a monster to kill a terrified child intimately, slowly. This may be considered personal growth as far as he is concerned.

He tells her she can burn or she can live. She chooses to live, whatever the hell that means, even Barton does not know. He has to carry her past the fire, tosses his rifle into the flames, zip tie her hands and toss in her the one of the undamaged trucks before pushing hard for the highway through the mountains. In the distance, the roar of the installation disappearing in thunder and fire echoes through the hills, creating a distraction for any who would follow. He'll have to change transport soon. He explains that when the Iranians finish combing through the wreckage that any evidence will not lead to the West. That if he wanted her dead, she would be, and now that he has gone to all this trouble, nobody is going to touch her. She does not believe a damn word.

As he barrels through the mountain pass, towards a rising sun over the Caspian Sea, he surprises himself with how much he wants to show her she is wrong.

_Note: The short list mentioned at the beginning of the story is Wade Wilson (Deadpool), Tony Masters (Taskmaster), Victor Creed (Sabretooth) and James Howlett (Wolverine). All who have been on the SHIELD payroll at one time or another in Marvel 616. Also, my interpretation of Black Widow is not a near century old Cold War spy, but a much younger product of the the chaotic 80/90's in Russia, but still shares the much used story of parents who died in a fire, hence here paralysis while surrounded by fire on a cold winter night._


	3. Chapter 3

_So Budapest, thought I've give that one a shot. Really not happy with how it turned out, but maybe someone will like it. Standard disclaimers apply._

The Budapest story seems to have gathered quite a bit of interest due to a throwaway quip overheard during the Battle of Manhattan. Natasha believes it is Barton's fault, because to Barton apparently bone conduction technology is too complicated a communication system for him to operate. Clint throws the bullshit flag on that one, and anyways who cares what Romanoff thinks? She can be a real bitch sometimes, thinks she is so fucking shit hot, little Miss Priss never makes a mistake.

Personally, Barton prefers the Grozny mission for a story; he comes off as pretty fucking ninja in that one. There was this move with a back flip and an RPG that would be the stuff of legend if any living witnesses existed, though Barton knows even Wade Wilson himself would not have been crazy enough to attempt it. Natasha would probably tell you, if she at all cared about such things, that Mogadishu is the story to hear, though she has always been partial to Asian horror and ultra-violence genres, so her tastes are unique. Both those files are redacted so heavily, along with most of their lives, that they might as well never bothered typing them out in the first place, no one will ever know the truth of what happened there once Clint is dead, no one will care.

Budapest and the differing points of view on it per Agent Romanoff and Barton originate in how they view their relationship, or at least in Barton's opinion. Romanoff will likely say different.

Clint Barton view on Natasha Romanoff and her behaviour towards him, and he classifies it as behaviour and not a relationship, is best thought of in terms of psychological warfare. Barton is a divorcee, which means he once had an approaching normal (not healthy) relationship with a woman, interaction with Natasha does not in any way, shape or form approach this. Natasha is an expert at appearing normal, meeting people's expectations and wishes, wearing masks. It makes her a top-level intelligence asset; she can be real people. She is not a real person underneath it all, she is something frightening and alluring. Barton on the other hand generally does not get to play dress up and shine for the masses, it happens but they keep him around mostly to skulk in the shadows and make things die; but Barton, while horrible and necessary, is real people, real as they come. Therefore, while Natasha and Clint blend seamlessly in many ways, there places where the meet that begin to look like scorched earth.

Natasha views their work as just that, work; she is open and honest about it, one of the few things in life she acts in that regard. There is no joy in what she does. Natasha wants more, wants to be real, and wants things for herself. Romanoff is not real, so she does not have realistic expectations. Clint views what he does as pleasure, though he does not ever give voice to it outside his own head, because Barton is a liar, even to himself sometimes. Clint wishes he did not want what he does, he knows what he is, and knows what he deserves; but being real means excepting your flaws. Natasha wants Clint, this man who carried her through fire, so she goes about it like she goes about everything; methodically and calculatingly working her target into a corner until they believe everything she feeds them. Barton wants Natasha, this beautifully broken girl building herself a real life, so he resists with everything in him; knowing she cannot build a real life based on a foundation of blood and bones.

Budapest starts in Kosovo. A small Balkan town with a name that means blood if you ask the right people, littered with depleted uranium munitions and scars of a brutal war. Plaster hiding the scars and a small brick factory bringing people back to the area. A mutant suicide bomber has once again left the crisp autumn air carrying smoke and screams.

Fury has consulted with Xavier, and the consensus is that this is only the beginning. Therefore, Barton and Romanoff are locked, loaded and wheels up before CNN manages to replay the footage more than twice. They are hunting the source, in many ways it seems when over the next week footage reveals the same fresh faced kid blows himself to kingdom come in Belgrade, Tirana and Sarajevo. Doppelgangers, duplicates, clones, whatever the official description ends on the heavily redacted report, somewhere in Eastern Europe lay the original mutant. SHIELD Science Division and the Xavier School have conferred and there must be a mutant zero within a limited search grid. A mutant child that went missing from Kansas some months back.

The search grid is large though, and the need for more data means the need for more attacks. The autumn air turns cold, winter is coming as Barton and Romanoff spends weeks surrounded by smoking craters, filled with bodies. Dark alleyways, Soviet era industrial sites, warehouses, and the squalid nightlife of Eastern Europe become their home. Romanoff handles it professionally, running down leads and clinically interrogating informants, as well as suspects. Barton feels the itch underneath his skin, for all his vaunted patience, he needs a target to let loose on before he builds to critical mass. The cracks are starting to show, the gutted organ trafficker who had already screamed his secrets from split lips until he was hoarse, after the staring at a burned out school bus the previous day. The bludgeoned banker whose brain matter painted the ground, which followed in the wake of the smoking wreckage of the cafe. The corrupt trade ministry official soaked in gasoline who begged for his life, after stepping over charred remains outside a church. Romanoff's smile grew wider as madness burned away the mask Barton wore; she saw strength and power, a man driven to right wrongs, Barton never felt weaker or more hysterical. Clint just wants the moment before a kill, his breathing and heartbeat controlled, the only place he feels in control. Wants eyes on at target he can tear through, it is why he cannot look in the mirror lately.

Barton sits in a hotel room in Budapest that smells of damp and despair, he has taken up smoking for the first time since Iraq, harsh Turkish cigarettes that leave thick streams of smoke that dance in the light of the television. He needs to shave, he needs a haircut, and needs to use the gun that he has field stripped and reassembled so many times his hands are starting to shake. Barton is contemplating how gunmetal would taste in his mouth when Natasha slips through the door, they have a solid lead, Barton's campaign of terror has borne fruit.

Which finds them in a goulash communism era bunker in the hills of Buda overlooking the city, knee deep in the chaos. The facility is mainly staffed by scientists, but at the core lays young James Madrox, an army of one. Hawkeye certainly didn't bring enough arrows for this, let alone bullets. Seemingly hundreds of duplicates of the Prime litter the halls. Broken, mangled, bloody and all possessing the same empty stare. Barton has been reduced to wielding his assault rifle as a club, a bayonet fixed to help cut through the mass of humanity blocking his target. Natasha has secured the communications hub at the heart of the bunker and through CCTV feeds assures him the Prime lays at the end of this gruesome tableau out of a zombie movie. The last few feet are won purely on brute strength, crushing the same teenaged skull over and over, a face that will live on in his nightmares. As he smashes the last ones face into the reinforced metal door hard enough to jar it open, he is greeted dimly lit room holding a frail teenage strapped and secured to a variety of medical equipment that would not look out of place in a torture porn film. Barton's adrenaline is bursting through his veins, his hands shake from it, and Natasha's voice over the comm is just white noise.

Barton's shoulder must have been dislocated somewhere in the scrum as a flood of agony strikes him as he knocks leads, tubes and equipment out of the way to press towards the target. The urge to vomit is swallowed down as the rifle is brought up; he just needs a moment to brace himself before bringing down the stock and ending this madness. It is then that Natasha's voice breaks through, screaming over his harsh pants to secure the target, do not eliminate. The boy's drug hazed eyes stare at him in terror, so different from the multitude he shot, stabbed cut and bludgeoned to reach this point. Barton wonders if has finally gone mad, the world seems to have stopped spinning, then it corrects; Natasha is screaming herself hoarse at this point, the child is sobbing and pleading, and Barton just wants to shut him up, crush the life out of him. Clint has always wanted things that are bad for him, he has never cared.

Romanoff finally reaches the holding cell; Barton is collapsed against the wall, bloody and broken. Quick feet carry her to young Jamie Madrox, still alive, still terrified and confused. She play the healing balm, soothes the frightened boy, while keeping an eye on her partner. She smiles.

That smile fills him with hope, she can be so much better than he. One day, he will tell her about the bank accounts, the house, the new identities tied to the safety deposit box key nestled next to his dog tags. A real life, one last roll for her to play, a ballet dance instructor in some peaceful town. A gift, an exit. She can be a real girl.

This is why they remember Budapest differently; he remembers a life that still included hope. Sitting in that bombed out restaurant somewhere near what used to be 42nd street, staring into the food in his lap, he feels the loss of that key. Somewhere in the rubble it lies, he is smart enough to know this battle echoed in a new epoch, more brutal and demanding, one no in this room will survive. Natasha catches his eye, a small smile quirking the corner of her mouth; he tries to return it, fails. Like so many other things in his life, he'll just have to soldier on.


End file.
